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Mulciber ignored Evans, continuing to walk away. Her voice was frustratingly loud, echoing through the corridor clear as a bell.

“Mulciber, you can’t run away from me forever, I need to talk to you!”

Snarling, he turned around to face her. She almost bumped into him, and he pushed her away in disgust.

“What do you want, Mudblood?”

“You know full well what I want. No-one else believes me, but I know you hurt her--”

“You know nothing about me and Mary!” he growled, though speaking quietly still. What the hell was she doing, bothering him? “If you think I am responsible for what happened, which I’m not, then you should be scared.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Evans said, standing taller. Her eyes were blazing with anger, and a curl of red hair had loosened itself from her tied back hair. “So what did you do to Mary?”

“I shan’t,” Evans snapped. “All I know is that Professor Sprout found her raving by the greenhouses without a clue who or where she was. What did you do?”

“I did nothing!”

“So what did Avery do?”

Mulciber stared at her in shock. He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him down, waving her finger in his face and silencing him with her glare as much as her voice.

“I can tell I’m right, he hurt her, but you were there, weren’t you, and you let him. She trusted you, she liked you; how could you do something like that to her? She really liked you,” Lily said, her speech becoming more angry with every word. “She liked you, and I could understand that, I encouraged her--”

“She’s lost her memory. That’s something that happened. And I know, that night, she was going to tell you how she felt, she told me--”

“She told you nothing! I was the only one she trusted--”

Mulciber stopped abruptly, realising he had said too much. Lily seemed to realise too, because when she spoke again, it was with a quiet anger, very different from the righteous indignation of before. In fact, her voice was suddenly trembling, and for a second Mulciber thought she was going to cry. He wondered why she was so upset and angry, wondered why she had been chasing him down corridors ever since Mary had been brought to Hospital Wing, raving, blood pouring from her brow.

And then, suddenly, he realised. Sneering, he said, “Oh, so that’s it. You think if Mary and I can’t be friends, then you and Severus can’t be either. You come here on your high horse, what right--”

Lily’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Mulciber felt the words catch in his throat. When she spoke, her voice was deadly quiet, and Mulciber was afraid. He tried to stop himself shivering.

“I’m her friend. I can care about her and my friendships, but you care about neither. You have a cruel and ugly soul, and I hope when she gets better, she can’t remember you.”

Mulciber, after a few moments, contrived to scornfully repeat, “Can’t remember me?” and then add, “Surely someone as high-minded as you would want to see me brought to justice?”

“I think her knowing you did this to her would hurt Mary more than several detentions will hurt you.”

As much as he wanted to retort, Mulciber suddenly found himself without anything to say. Lily stared at him, and Mulciber felt that her deep green eyes were boring into his soul.

“If you hurt anyone like that again, I swear you’ll be in a worse state than she is now.”

Mulciber, before that evening, would have laughed at the idea of Lily threatening him. But seeing her now, he was afraid. Just as he had been afraid a week before when Mary had tentatively kissed him behind the greenhouses. Just as he had been afraid moments later when Avery saw them together, when Avery tortured her, and when he stood by and did nothing to stop it.

If he was honest with himself, he deserved Lily to leave him worse off than Avery had left Mary now. But he wasn’t honest with himself, and managed to scoff, “You can’t hurt me. Take a walk, Evans. And if Mary recovers her memory, then say the same thing to her. Goodnight.”

Lily just smiled, and Mulciber felt they were both aware of how feeble his front was. He walked away, calmly and steadily. But once he was round the next corridor he broke into a run and was still shaking when he reached the Slytherin Common Room.

Roxanne was finishing the conclusion of the Transfiguration essay she was assigned over the Christmas break. Once she had finished this essay, all her homework would be done, and she would be free to spend the rest of the break as she wished. She was trying to find the right wording for her final sentence when she heard a disturbance by the fire a few feet from where she was sitting.

She quickly pointed her wand towards the fireplace, where a tall man was standing. He looked to be about her parents’ age, with his brown hair flecked with grey around the ears. His eyes crinkled around the edges as he smirked. Roxanne’s wand was clearly amusing him.

“Hello, you must be Roxanne,” the man said. At the sound of his accent, Roxanne lowered her wand, finally recognizing the man to be her favourite Quidditch player.

Roxanne blushed. “I am so sorry, I didn’t think, I..”

Oliver’s smirk quickly turned into a smile. “No harm done. I was actually asked by your mother to come and talk to you. Rumour has it you want to play Quidditch.”

“I was thinking about it.” Suddenly Roxanne’s dreams felt silly as she related it to the older man, who happened to be her idol.

“Well, she wants me to explain the ins and outs of the profession, the good and the bad. Perhaps you would like to go for a walk, and we could talk?”

“Of course,” Roxanne replied in what she hoped was a calm and collected voice, because inside, she was jumping.

***

“You know, if my mum was trying to convince me not to join a Quidditch team, she chose the wrong person to convince me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you are just so passionate about the game. That was why you were always my favourite player. You keep playing because you won’t let anyone not let you.”

Oliver grinned. “It’s true. And if I’m being completely honest, I’d say go for it, if it’s what you really love to do.”

***

Six months later, Roxanne was again sitting at the table with a quill in hand. This time, there was a bottle of Firewhiskey in front of her and a clean glass by her hand.

This time, when there was a ruckus by the fire, she didn’t even bother to reach for her wand.

“What, no wand at my chest today?”

“Why does it even matter?”

“I brought some wine, your mother told me that you had your final tryout today.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t make it.” It was then that Oliver noticed the redness of her eyes. “It came down to me and a large man, and clearly, as a Beater, bigger is better.” Roxanne suddenly burst back into tears.

“Why don’t you try out for the Harpies?”

“Because to them I’ll always be Ginny Potter’s niece, not Roxanne.” Roxanne breathed in a shaky breath.

“Not everyone makes it in on their first try-out.”

“You did,” Roxanne snapped.

“You know what? I brought the wine and you have the firewhiskey. Why don’t we drink to your loss and to a better tryout next time.” Oliver conjured another glass and began to pour the wine. One glass turned into two, then three. Soon, both the wine and half the firewhiskey had been consumed.

“Hey Oliver,” Roxanne slurred. “I did tell you that you were my hero, right?”

“About five times,” Oliver replied.

“Well, what do you say to being my hero now?”

Oliver looked confused, but he didn’t have time to say anything before Roxanne’s mouth crashed into his.

Roxanne deepened the kiss. She didn’t care that she was drunk out of her mind or that she really had no idea what she was doing. All she knew was what she wanted in that moment, and no one was about to tell her no.

Title: Table For TwoPairing: Draco/ HarryRating: 6th-7th YearsWarnings: Sexual Situations/ Strong Profanity/ SlashWord count: To my utter shock given how long I spent fiddling with this, adding and taking away stuff, 797.Author's Note: This is darker than my head-canon for both characters. Jess-I may have to continue this.

The pub’s warmth, its air thick with cigarette smoke, the stench of a beer-sodden carpet, all enveloped Harry as soon as he entered. He wasn’t sure where he was, vaguely recalling been thrown from his local, then getting on a train, before being kicked out by a conductor, but he didn’t give a d---. He just wanted to have a drink, and sit in the corner, unnoticed, and not be forced into the fun. Unless someone fancied him, in which case why not, as long as she, or he, as Harry really didn’t care, was willing to do all the work.

The place was bl---- crowded, however, and he pushed through, struggling to find a seat. Most of the tables were occupied by couples.

He’d forgotten it was f------ Valentine’s Day. He definitely needed this drink. In the corner, he could see the back of a blonde head, sitting alone at a table for two. Clearly the poor s-- had been stood up, but was too stubborn to leave.

“‘scuse me, is this seat taken?” he said, not even glancing at the man, before sitting down, and gulping back his ale. He slammed it down, and then looked up.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” his companion drawled. “Politeness was never one of your qualities, was it, Potter?”

“What the f--- are you doing here?”

“Me?” Malfoy said, in mock surprise, raising his glass of white wine to his lips. He had, Harry noticed, very red lips, particularly set against his pale skin. The lips parted in a small smirk, before Malfoy added, “This is my local and I have every right to be here. You however--” Malfoy paused to fill his glass from the nearly empty bottle on the table, before continuing, “--are the Chosen One and therefore, even though I don’t give a d---, I am forced to be aware of your pathetic excuse of a sex life, and the fact that Ginny Weasley got off with Cormac Mclaggen. Or was it Oliver Wood?”

Harry glared at him, his grip tightening around his glass.

“Squeeze that any tighter, and you’ll break it. You always did have a temper--”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry managed to say through gritted teeth. He wanted to leave, but suddenly his body felt too heavy to move, and he just wanted to shut those smirking lips, and stop him from f------ talking all the bl---- time.

“Oh, am I bothering you? So very sorry,” Malfoy said, leaning back and casually lighting a himself a cigarette. Not looking at Harry, he added, “You’re rather cute when you’re angry.”

Harry had been in mid sip and spluttered all over Malfoy. He began to apologise, forgetting he was being rude, but Malfoy didn’t seem too concerned, brushing down his Muggle shirt, and then running his thumb around his lips to get rid of the drops of alcohol there.

F---. Harry did not want to think about the image that had just flashed through his mind. Malfoy, however, smirked, and leant back, exhaling away from Harry.

When Harry felt a a foot against his leg, he sat bolt upright.

“What?” Malfoy sneered. “You come here, drunk off your t---, gawp at me with an indiscretion that I should’ve expected, given what I know of you, and haven’t even offered to buy me a drink yet.” He tapped his cigarette ash into the empty bottle, then added, with a shrug, “Unless you want to d--- the formalities, and just f--- in the toilets. They’re not the most salubrious I’ve ever screwed in, but they’ll do.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “Malfoy, I don’t know what you think--”

Malfoy reached forward, grabbed Harry’s chin, and pulled him into a kiss. More of a snap than a kiss, Malfoy’s lips grazing harshly against his, and then pulling back, just as Harry leaned forward to meet them.

Malfoy pushed his chair backwards and stood up, a smug grin, which Harry desperately wanted to tear off, on his face,

“If you’ve got the stomach for it, you know where I am,” Malfoy said, before walking away. Harry stared after him, until the crowd swallowed Malfoy, and his skin tight jeans. He reached for his glass, but found it empty.

Why Malfoy was in a Muggle pub, wearing Muggle clothes, Harry didn’t care. He did care that this was Malfoy. At best, a git who’d tried to make his life hell, at worst, a weak-willed coward who’d got off far more lightly than he deserved. But he was very good looking.

“F--- it,” Harry muttered, standing up so suddenly his chair fell to the floor with a crash. He didn’t care, pushing through the crowd, and following the sign for the toilets.

Draco Malfoy had inherited, along with his father’s money, his fondness for investing it where it would gain him influence. Two things he had that his father hadn’t, however, were a particular fondness for Quidditch and a tendency to stray from his wife.

Both came into play when he met Katie Bell again.

The Pride of Portree, after the worst three seasons of Quidditch in the history of the League (aside from the notable exception, the Chudley Cannons, who remained active by what appeared to be a miracle), had finally lost his support. After some careful examination of statistics, he had gone with the Appleby Arrows for his new team, rather than the ever-popular Montrose Magpies; Montrose was losing steam as well, sagging under its long history of excellence. If you asked him, they had too much to live up to. Appleby had been getting better this past season under the guidance of their new manager, who, through keen insight into how a team fit together and a few unconventional choices, had put together what was shaping up to be one of the best teams in the League. With some extra funding, they could do great things - and that was where Draco came in, in exchange for top-box seats at all of their games and a cut of their profits. The owners’ finances had seen better days, and they were counting on this new manager to bring them back in the black. Draco had come in at just the right time.

It was just a shame the new manager was a former Gryffindor who probably remembered his part in the war, and his general behavior in school, all too well. Bell had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since the owners had introduced them. He probably could’ve had one of the girls on the team if he’d wanted, certainly picked someone up elsewhere, but Draco was accustomed to getting what he wanted, especially these days. And he definitely wanted Katie Bell.

* * *

Katie, for her part, viewed Malfoy as a necessary evil. She knew the state of the Kirkpatricks’ finances, and it was lucky they hadn’t been bought out outright; they wouldn’t have been able to turn down a decent offer. His money was useful for them, but she wasn’t going to grovel to him like the Kirkpatricks had. It wasn’t her job to make sure they retained his patronage; it was her job to turn out the best team she could. She’d be polite, sheathe her claws, but no more.

Damn, but he made that hard. He was always there, hanging about - it was creepy. She knew what he wanted (he made it clear enough, always offering to take her out for a drink, and he was all hands when she let him get close enough). She knew, she just wasn’t willing to give it to him. He was up himself, that was for certain, and if he thought she was going to be swayed just because he splashed money everywhere, replacing all their outdated equipment and treating the team to dinner after wins, then he was dead wrong. Besides, he was married. She wasn’t some stupid bint who thought he’d leave his wife for the sake of their love, or whatever tripe such girls thought up.

All those reasons to keep far away from him, and there was still a part of her that thought it might almost be worth it. His face was nothing to write home about, but she liked a skinny man in sharp robes. And she wasn’t after more than sex, herself, not at this point in her life. She had a career to focus on. A career that probably hung on keeping Malfoy happy, if she was honest.

That treacherous little part of her wouldn’t stop saying, ever-so-politely, that the sex might be rather nice.